My Confessions
by Dagorloth
Summary: 3 Chapters. “Faramir, you pride yourself on your insight, so surely you can see that the Lady Eowyn's sadness stems from something beyond her dreams. And how can you be certain you cannot give them to her? Dreams change, as do destinies and desires.”
1. Falling Into Place

**My Confessions  
**By: Rai  
Rated: PG

**Author's Note:** This fanfiction was inspired by Josh Groban's "My Confessions," so the atmosphere and tone of this fic was written to match the song. This really is my version of how the romance came to life. Though Tolkien gave plenty of details, I had some strange urge to expand on it. So here be the results.  
**Spoiler:** Spoils the entire series of _The Lord of the Rings – _because it tells you who won the war! So either read the books or watched the movies. However, this is book-canon, so it'd be better if you read the books.  
**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner nor creator nor the writer of Middle-earth or _The Lord of the Rings, _nor am I owners of any of the movies. I am not making any money out of this and am doing this for pure personal enjoyment.  
Any canonical and grammar errors are slips of my own (and will be glad to correct it if pointed out because I'm not perfect).  
**Summary:** "_You who pride himself on his insight surely can see that her sadness stems from something beyond her dreams. And how can you be so sure it is a dream you cannot give her? Dreams change, as do destinies and desires_."

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 1 – Falling Into Place**

The day was dark and cold. A chilling wind blew in from the East; it still reeked of the smoke and fire of battle. Hovering above was a great blanket of black cloud accumulating as each day passed in agony. It smothered the sun and its warmth, bringing with it only a darkness that weighed down on the City of Minas Tirith, already burdened and weary by the war that laid much of the City and its land to ruin only nine days prior. Yet the pride and strength of the descendants of Numenor was great, though it waned in the lesser days of this Age.

Life continued in Gondor, though in a melancholy disquiet unlike the once thriving capital.

Faramir, son of Denethor and Steward of Gondor walked the halls of the Houses of Healing, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He wrapped his cloak around him tighter as he felt an ill wind sweep down the hall from the open window beyond, but he could not protect himself from his own growing discomfort. The cold seemed to seep through the very walls and he knew not such silence. It left him ill at ease and restless, and unable to remain indoors for much longer, he decided to retire to the gardens. There, perhaps, he thought, he could rid himself of his worries, or at least be allowed to pace freely within its walled courtyards. There also he could look eastward, towards the mountains of Mordor.

There was where all the hopes of Men now laid.

As he approached the doors leading to the gardens, he noticed that the Warden was standing before them, conversing quietly with a Healer Faramir did not recognize. The young Gondorian could not hear them, so muted were their words, but he could read the worry of their expressions as they looked to the gardens.

"Surely, you have better things than to sit before the gates, kind sir, fair lady," said Faramir softly so not to startle them, stopping to bow his head respectfully. "Pray tell the reason for you to stand here, with so concerned a look on your faces."

"My lord," said the Warden respectfully as he bowed in turn. "It is good you are here. Naught but an hour ago, the Lady Éowyn withdrew from her room and came to the gardens. Her eyes appeared lost and it seemed she was in a deep trance, for she walked those cold grounds with nary a cloak or even decent cover on a day as bitter as this. Even now she sits on the bench at the garden's center, staring ever east."

At Éowyn's name, Faramir looked up to see the fair white lady of Rohan, her golden hair shimmering in the dull light of the day. Like a waif she sat alone at the garden's center, her face turned away from the entrance, staring to the east. A thin white gown draped lightly around her form, though the wind oft shifted it so that the fabric itself seemed corporeal. Indeed, Faramir thought, it was too thin a garment to be wearing without a cloak.

"What I do not understand," said Faramir, his voice low, "is why you have not stopped her, or forced her indoors, if indeed this has been going on for an hour's time. Would that not be the most rational approach?"

"For any others, we would have," said the Healer softly to Faramir, "but surely even you, my Lord, have recognized the Lady Éowyn to be unlike the others under our care. For though she is as strong as she is fair and beautiful, her spirit is as delicate as she is sad."

Faramir's mouth tightened at the mentioning of her sadness, for he had perceived her despair on the day they first met, in the gardens as it were. Over the days that followed, he began to better understand her sadness. He felt great pity for her, and wished only to see her happy, but the happiness she sought was one only found in dreams. And that was something he could not give.

He sighed. "I see," he said softly. "Perhaps you were right in your decision. Allow me to speak with her."

"That would be best," said the Warden with a bow as Faramir stepped through the threshold into the garden courtyard. He also noticed briefly the coy, almost expectant look of the Warden's as he passed, to which he ignored.

There were no sounds, not even the gentle trill of birds as he stepped outdoors, his footsteps making no sound on the soft carpet of grass. His breath misted before him, and he wrapped his cloak around him the more tightly as a sharp blast of wind brushed past both him and Éowyn. But Éowyn did not move, though her hair danced in the wind that disturbed it.

Faramir stared sadly at Éowyn as he tread silently to the bench he knew well for he had long sat there with the Lady Éowyn in days before, sometimes in speech, sometimes in silence, but ever looking towards the east. In silence now, he sat down next to her, sitting so that he stared in the opposite direction as she did, not wishing to disturb her in her quiet.

"How dark this world seems today. Like a shadow, tall and foreboding. It stands above us, waiting to crush us in a single sweep," he heard Éowyn whisper. "And we are but helpless to stop it from devouring us and all that we love."

"This does not mean we should reject all hope and light, because the end seems inevitable," said Faramir gently. "Ever there is hope there is a chance of victory."

"But for how long must one hope, until it is a false hope?" asked Éowyn. "When must the young decide they won't remain young, the old they will grow no older, and the warrior that they will not see another sun?"

"There is no such thing as a false hope," said Faramir. "Belief is half the battle."

Éowyn turned to him. She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed on him, as cold as the walls that surrounded them. "Then half the battle is already lost," whispered Éowyn.

Faramir stared at her sadly, noting her anguish in this late hour. He felt his heart clench from within as he cursed his own inability to bring her out of the cold darkness she had encased herself in, at his helplessness in drawing her away from her sadness into beauty and light. He looked away, staring at his hands. "In times when hope seems lost, you must then turn to those who still have hope," he said quietly, "those willing to help you bear your burdens."

Éowyn eyes filled with confusion and doubt at his words, but her voice was strong when she said: "Only the weak accepts the protection of others."

Faramir looked to her in surprise. "That is where you are wrong, Éowyn," he said gently. "It does not make one weak, but stronger. One can stand on the edge of a knife for only so long before they must take hold of another, or topple to their doom. To be able to rely on the strength of others is to find strength in you."

"But not everyone is so lucky to receive protection," said Éowyn harshly, a cold laugh coming from her throat. "And those who are more unlucky find it, only to have it taken away. And then they are left the more cold and helpless. Alone, they still stand on the edge of the knife, but there is no one there to hold to, or to share in their burdens."

She shivered slightly, whether from the cold within her heart, or the cold of the day, Faramir could not tell, but as a hand came up to catch the hair that curled before her face, Faramir found himself taking her hand into his, and he held it gently.

Silence fell between them as they stared at each other. "Your hands," whispered Faramir, "you're hands are so cold." He took his other hand and clasped it lightly over her hand, allowed his warmth to warm it.

He looked to her, and he saw that she was looking at his hands, but her eyes held none of the sadness or hardness it had before. Her eyes had softened and her expressions changed to one that seemed lost, as if she did not understand what it was he was doing. Even he was not certain what compelled him to take her hand, but as he felt her hand warm beneath his, he felt his heart fill with a longing unbeknownst to him. And he realized he could not take his eyes off her. He felt captured by her beauty, by the golden hair that seemed to frame her suddenly soft features.

The hand slipped from his grasp as she pulled away from him, although her retreat was slow and seemed reluctant, but her uncertainty was stronger. Her hand was in a tight fist, as if she could hold his warmth, as she brought it to her chest. She did not look to him for her eyes remain fixed on his still outstretched hands. She did not speak a word, but her expression did not change.

Faramir's hands fell, but were quick to rise up again, this time to his cloak. Skilled fingers unclasped it quickly, and he held the ends so that it did not fall from his back. "It is a cold day, my Lady," he said softly, draping the warm green velvet of his cloak over her shoulders. Her face shot up to look at him, her eyes wide with confusion. "It would do you no good to become ill in this weather." He arranged the cloak about her, taking great cares on her injured shield arm, still healing from her tremendous battle.

"Even those who live life standing alone in dark can find one who will share in their burdens, and so help them overcome it," he added.

Their eyes met, and it seemed to Faramir as if eternity encompassed that second in which he looked upon her. His heart pulsed ever faster, and his throat constricted as he gazed at her face. But it was not her physical beauty that had him enchanted. Her grey eyes were like windows to her soul. He saw in them tenderness and a love deep and beautiful. Though she was a shieldmaiden, her soul was not one of battles and wars. And it was as delicate as she had been described – like a flower frozen in time, yet its beauty was beyond comprehension.

He reached out, his hand slowly moving from where he had been arranging the cloak around her lap so that they held her cheek. They were as cold as her hands, he thought, but softer and gentler. Her face was not that of a warrior's. Her face was not one that was suppose to experience so much grief, or pain. He watched the tears form in her eyes, her lips parted delicately as her breathing became heavier, mist rising as she exhaled.

Realization dawned on him suddenly, and he stiffened as he slowly understood, no longer blinded by his confusion.

He loved her.

"It is late," said Éowyn suddenly, breaking his trance like a bolt to his heart. She jerked away from his hand quickly, and stood abruptly. The cloak slid from her shoulders as she did, and she stared but a moment at it before swooping down to pick it up swiftly. She held it for a moment, looking to it with a sad look, before holding it out to the young Steward, her arm shaking. "I have been out for far too long, my Lord," she said stiffly, "I should return to my quarters."

Faramir did not take the cloak from her, but only stared at her speechlessly, his mouth agape as he grappled with his own confusion. "Éowyn…" he choked out, but no other words followed. Words failed him, as he tried to grasp the impact of his emotions, for his love for her was greater than any he had ever felt or experienced and he knew not how to accept it.

He knew only that the sentiments within him at the mere thought of her made each beat of his heart ache. Never had he known such pains, knowing her not to be his, but at the same time, never had he felt so much joy knowing her to be next to him, near him, looking at him.

Some time passed as Faramir tried again and again to form the words he wanted to say, but his throat was so constricted and tight that he found it hard to breathe, much less speak. Éowyn watched him wordlessly, her eyes cold again, before she placed the cloak next to him. Her frustration at his lack of words or even a thank you was evident as she bowed formally to him. "I bid you farewell, Lord Steward of Gondor," she said, her voice as flat and formal as any who greeted a stranger.

Her tone sent knives through his heart, more painful even than when he had been pierced with the dark arrow of a Southron. It was as if she did not care for him, though he would relinquish the city and all its people, if only so his feelings could be returned. But alas! ever her fair heart was turn to another, one whom Faramir, for a moment, could only consider with great envy.

As she turned away from him, he found his voice. "The days have become cold in Minas Tirith," he said hoarsely. "I will have a cloak sent to you in the near future; I will not have you suffer in the city's frost." He took a deep breath as he added: "It would be imprudent of me to allow so fair a being as thee to be without warmth and protection from the chill of darkness." He tried to say more, he tried to tell her more, but the words refused to leave his mouth. He could only smile sadly at her.

Éowyn turned, and for a moment, Faramir thought her face to soften again, but it was only a moment, for her expression turned to ice once more as she said: "That would be most appreciated. I thank you for your hospitality and your consideration." She bowed again, and then she was gone, like a ghost she slipped away from him, as if she was never there.

The Warden and the Healer looked to the gardens and shook their head. It had been two hours since Éowyn's departure and the light was fading fast. Yet still their Steward sat on the bench in the center of the courtyard, his head in his hands, his cloak untouched where Éowyn had left it, for he had not bothered to return it to his shoulders.

It was a bitter day in Minas Tirith and the night would be colder still.

**TBC**


	2. I Can't Hide

**My Confessions  
**By: Rai

**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner nor creator nor the writer of Middle-earth or _The Lord of the Rings, _nor am I owners of any of the movies. I am not making any money out of this and am doing this for pure personal enjoyment.  
Any canonical and grammar errors are slips of my own (and will be glad to correct it if pointed out because I'm not perfect).  
**

* * *

**

**Chapter 2 – I Can't Hide **

"I do not understand, my Lady."

Éowyn did not understand either. She turned to look at the young Rohirrim, who only stared at her with eyes filled with astonishment and awe. She sighed as she turned to face the window once more, to look out over the city below the Houses of Healing. "There is nothing to understand, Cuichelm," said Éowyn flatly as she crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to look upon the young messenger again, refusing to let him see the tears in her eyes as she grappled with a decision that startled even her.

"But to refuse to ride to the Fields of Cormallen…" started the young man.

"It is not that I refuse to ride, it is that I do not feel well enough, or strong," said Éowyn softly, although the lie tasted bitter in her mouth. She knew that she was indeed well enough to ride to Cair Andros, but only in body, not in spirit. Her spirit felt as battered and torn as the day she made battle with the Witch-King, but that was not something she would tell Cuichelm. So she instead refused to take her eyes off the scene beyond her window, refused to let him see the deceit in her eyes.

The sun was bright and beautiful today, its rays illuminating the White City so that it shone like a diamond. And Éowyn could hear the happy laughter of the people below. They were celebrating the end of the Shadow, the return of their King and the coming of a new Age.

But Éowyn felt only scorn for their joys. She envied that they could bask in the glory of a new day, while she stood still in the bitter night, trapped in an eternal darkness. The end of the Age had brought her no salvation from her sorrows. Still she stood on the edge of an abyss.

"The days may be golden and bright since the fall of Baradur," she whispered, "but there are still those who ail in this world. Not all is yet made anew, and not all is yet undone."

"But, what of your brother, Lady?" started Cuichelm slowly, and she could hear the hesitation in his voice. "He had begged that you may come and be with him in these days renewed. He wished that you can share the joys of this time."

Éowyn bit her lip. She knew her brother waited for her anxiously to come to the Fields of Cormallen, for she and her brother had parted in tears and sadness. They both had felt that Éomer would be riding to near certain death, and neither thought they would ever meet the other again in this world. But now that the terror had passed she knew he awaited their reunion so that they could smile and be together, without hurt or sadness.

But now she would inflict on him the hurt and sadness she only wished to take away in her rejection to ride out, and for what? She did not know. And to desert him for a reason she could not explain tormented her.

She did not understand why she refused to go.

Éowyn held her silence, listening as Cuichelm shifted uncomfortably, his chainmail clinking. At length, he sighed. "My Lady," he added gently, "I may be a mere warrior of no consequential ranking, but I could see in his eyes that he sorely misses you. He only wants to be near you and know that you are safe."

Éowyn's breathing quavered and she bit her lip again. She wished she could again see her brother for she too missed him. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, smiling, jumping into his arms and let him swing her around, like what he once did when they were children, when he had returned from his training. She wanted to be near the only family she had left in this world, and yet…

She also knew deep within her heart that to see him would mean she must eventually meet with the Lord Aragorn for the first time since Dunharrow.

No! She would not let her unrequited feelings for him step in the way of her family and her brother. She should be there for Éomer, for he was now King of Rohan, and even as the Lord Aragorn was preparing to become King of Gondor, so was her brother preparing to lead his people into the new Age. She would be there to aid him in the task that awaits him in Edoras…

"Tell my brother that I am sorry," she found herself saying breathlessly. She closed her eyes, her mind screaming at her folly, insisting that she should take back her words, prepare to ride. But her heart refused to listen, and even now it said that she was doing what was right, though the reasons confused her. The choice felt as bitter as her misery and she gripped the frame of the window in her own despair. "Tell him that I love him and that I wish he would forgive me."

He would forgive her in time, but to know she was causing him pain because she herself could not gather the courage or find the resolve to leave the Houses of Healing wounded her more than any injury. She wanted to pound her injured fist into the wall in her dissatisfaction of her weaknesses, and it took much self-restraint on her part for her to keep her calm, composed exterior.

Cuichelm sighed. "This is not the tidings I had wished to give Éomer King," he said, and his expression became full of sorrow as he stared at the fair Lady of Rohan. So sad she seemed, so silent and sombre, like wilting flower amongst a garden of roses in full bloom. And in this dark room surrounded by cold stone walls, with only a window to look out into the world, he could not help but realize her feelings of oppression.

"I will not try to persuade you," he added softly. "To force you would go against my honour, and would only sadden my Lord even more."

Éowyn averted her eyes downward, for she felt great guilt in laying this burden on the young messenger. In a time of joy and victory, sad news was not the news one would like to give to their lord and liege. Still she could change her mind, to ride from Gondor and the Houses of Healing…

"I am sorry," said Éowyn softly, "but I am not ready."

Cuichelm blinked. "Ready for what, my Lady?" he asked uncertainly.

Cuichelm's eyes widened as Éowyn turn to look at him solemnly. He was stunned to see tears, her grey eyes overflowing with a sadness that ran deep. Her eyes were a mixture of confusion, contempt and were simply a tidal wave of raw emotions. In all his young years, never had he seen such a look, and it was one that he would remember for all his life, and in which he would measure one's sadness in years to come. For a moment, he thought she was going to collapse in tears, burdened by her grief, but she did not.

Instead she answered: "I am not ready for tomorrow."

8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8

There were only questions in her mind. That she could not answer them troubled her deeply.

She anxiously paced her small quarters once Cuichelm had taken his leave. She knew that he would speak with the Warden about her refusal. And soon it will be common gossip amongst the Healers, though the Healers held enough pity in their eyes when they looked upon her. "_Poor wild horse girl,"_ they probably thought when they looked upon her pale, thin figure, "_such a tragic little thing she is; a broken jewel among an untamed people of the North."_

Anger boiled within her as she recalled the ways they spoke to her, as if she were a fragile newborn. How Éowyn despised those looks they gave her, treating her like an abused stallion with which they would walk carefully around, but only look upon it with sad eyes. They understood nothing of her pains or sorrows. They know not what they pitied, only that she should be.

And she knew not which was the more shameful.

She turned, and her eyes fell on the door that led beyond her room, beyond her solitude and personal torment. But at the same time, it only revealed her to the eyes of those who would only look upon her in despair, shaking their heads as they turned away, whispering her name in voices they thought she would not hear. But her heart was restless, desiring to be released from her cage, and her soul longed for a companionship that did not exist. Nonetheless, she steeled her heart and opened the door, why she did not know, and to where she could not say.

She did not have to walk far before she encountered her first group of Healers. They had been laughing and talking gaily, until they sighted her, and their happiness faded to an uncomfortable silence as they moved aside to let her pass, bowing their heads respectfully to her. But Éowyn did not acknowledge their bows nor did she dare look them in the eyes, for she was certain they'd only have doubt and disappointment in their expressions, shaking their heads as they clucked their tongues lightly. As if they understood what tormented her.

Even she did not know.

Her steps quickened as she followed where her feet led her, for they knew better where she wished to go. So many thoughts tumbled through her mind as she passed group after group. Some bowed politely to her, but most contented in merely staring openly at her as she quickened her stride, her eyes trained forward, shutting out what she did not wish to see.

She was at the gardens. She stopped as she realized where it was her feet led her. Her breathing was quick as she stared at the doors wordlessly, unsure as to why she was there. At first she thought of turning around and returning to her room, away from the bright and penetrating stares of others. But something compelled her, and she gently nudged open the doors to the outside, closing it quietly behind her as she was greeted by the bright and glorious afternoon in Minas Tirith.

She blinked, unused to its brightness, so long had she remained indoors since that last day that Faramir had taken her to the walls to watch the new era dawn on them. She looked to the walls, as if recalling the memory, but she was quick to turn away, for not since that day had Faramir paid her any heed.

She shook her head, chastising herself over the assumption that she was worth Faramir's attention to begin with. Why should he pay any heed to her, a wild horse girl from the North that she was, cold and ruthless as the mountain snow? He was the Steward of Gondor, a man of great heritage and honour. Surely he had better things to do now than to trade words with her. Surely there were better people, ones with more respect, more lineage and greatness than her; people that were worthy of his attention and time.

Great men had no use for nursemaids.

But as she thought of such things to herself, a great sadness seemed to come over her as she began to walk the gardens slowly. And it seemed as if only she in the garden and the entire city wilted under the light that was the new dawn, in a way that the spring itself seemed to make a mockery of her own loneliness. Her eyes oft strayed to look upon the White Citadel, but she would always look away again. Around and around she walked, like a ghost lost in the world of the living, until at last she halted to look up again at the wall where she and Faramir last spoke.

Time stood still as she looked to it, and her eyes began to fill with unshed tears. But as quickly as they came she banished them, and filled with cold rejection, she decided that she should return to her room. She was doing herself little good wandering here as if she were a spirit rejected. There was no one here, after all.

There was no one in the gardens. She was alone.

Again she had to walk the busy halls of the Houses of Healing. Again she had to endure the pitiful stares, the head-shaking and the sighs. It seemed as though the world was bright with festivities, but such joys dimmed in her presence as if she were depriving them of their happiness. As if she was a blight in which they could not openly scorn, only pity.

The door closed behind her as she found herself in her cage once again, with only her window to show her a falling sun as the day slowly melted away into the night. But it was not what lay beyond the window that held her gaze.

Éowyn's hand strayed upward as she began stroking the warm, deep blue velvet of the long, beautiful cloak that lay draped over the small chair at the foot of her bed. Her fingers gently traced itself over the beautiful silver threading, so carefully sewn and beautifully crafted.

A sad smile formed on her lips as she remembered how Faramir had wrapped it around her shoulders, his gentle expression never leaving his face as he told her of his mother and how it had been hers. Even on so dark a day, Éowyn could see the joy in his eyes at seeing it be worn by another, and a love unbound for a mother he knew so little of. In this they were one and the same, for she too knew only a little of her own mother. And she also understood the honour in which she had been bestowed in being given the one thing that he remembered of his mother.

It was almost like he actually cared for her…

Nothing made sense to Éowyn anymore. It did not make sense to her. How could one who showed such tenderness towards her be able to toss her aside so easily? Was she truly so expendable? Why did this bother her so, this thought that he cared nothing for her at all? She was not certain if she wanted an answer, however. So many questions filled her head now after so long of nothing moving her or changing her, where there was only stillness and quiet. Now it felt as if everything about her was moving and changing, and she could not maintain control of it. Did she want to maintain control of it? She was not certain of that either, but as she stood there, looking upon the fine raiment that Faramir had graciously bestowed her with, she could feel now that her heart was turning, and she knew not where it would take her.

But she was still alone; left behind in darkness with no one to hold to.

Alone, she felt as if she was toppling dangerously on the edge of the cliff, but the person she thought to have once stood there to catch her was in fact merely a dream.

There was no one, only her.

Tears welled in her eyes, and this time she did not try to stop her emotions from overcoming her. And they fell freely from her eyes as she let go, and collapsed to her knees in despair as she released her torment into tears and sobs. But thought they eased her stress, they did not give her answers, nor gave her peace of mind.

She did not understand…

**TBC **


	3. Now Hear My Confession

**My Confessions  
**By: Rai

**Author's Note:** Please note that I did take a dialogue from _The Return of the King _for this chapter, if only because I wished for this story to end smoothly, without loose ends. I did elaborate on the scene itself to tie it to the fanfiction, but in any case... I hope all of you enjoyed the story.  
**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner nor creator nor the writer of Middle-earth or _The Lord of the Rings, _nor am I owners of any of the movies. I am not making any money out of this and am doing this for pure personal enjoyment.  
Any canonical and grammar errors are slips of my own (and will be glad to correct it if pointed out because I'm not perfect).

* * *

**  
Chapter 3 – Now Hear My Confession**

Faramir's eyes darkened as he considered the words of the Warden carefully, allowing himself the time to slowly comprehend the gravity of the situation. He glanced upward to look into the Warden's eyes, seeing that the Warden was observing him; observing his Lord's reactions to what he had been told for what was said or what happened next would determine what was to happen later.

So much could be gained or lost with but a single word.

"I have heard rumour that the Lady Éowyn did not depart to Cair Andros to be with her brother, and for a moment I had wondered why she did not go," acknowledge Faramir cautiously. "But I have not had much time or luxury to give it more than a thought since I was released from your care, Warden. The city is alive and awaiting the coming of the King, and there is much to be done before he is to be given this City."

The Warden looked sceptically at Faramir. "Do you mean to tell me that you have not given the Lady Éowyn more than a passing thought since you left?"

Faramir blinked for he did not expect such a frank question, a question he was unwilling to answer. And he did not answer it and averted his gaze as he tried to regain his composure.

The truth was that he had thought of little else for days at a time. Ever he looked to the Houses of Healing, wondering if she was still there, wondering if she was healed in her heart. When the messengers from Cormallen arrived for a moment Faramir feared that he would lose her, that she would ride away, never to be seen by him again. And yet at the same time, he felt that in her leaving, perhaps she would at last find the happiness she sought in being near the Lord Aragorn's side, and he felt glad, if only it was a bitter happiness for him.

But she did not ride to meet her brother, and though part of Faramir was relieved, another part of him was confused by this strange choice. Many nights he had lain in bed awake, spent wondering the conundrum that was her choice, but as to the truth, only she knew if indeed even she understood her choice. Faramir was not certain.

The Warden sighed, taking Faramir's silence as confirmation to his suspicions. "Faramir," he started gently, "she is growing colder and paler with each passing day. It seems that in all the City, she alone is ailing and sorrowful. Why? It is not my place to know or even comprehend. I may not even know the answers, but I know what I can see and I can see that she is trapped in her own despair. If only for that I fear for her recovery, Faramir."

"And how am I to be of any assistance in her sadness?" Faramir asked. "For her sadness comes from a dream she cannot achieve and is one I cannot give her. I cannot help her any more than you yourself can, Warden, and even if I could help her, I do not think she would allow me to…"

"Is that all true, Faramir?" said the Warden sharply, cutting into Faramir's sentence abruptly. "I tire of your excuses, Faramir, if not to me, than to yourself! Surely even you do not believe in your weak rationalizations and logic. Even you should have realized that what you are telling yourself is but a pitiful attempt to protect yourself."

Faramir stared open-mouthed at the Warden, rendered speechless at what he had been told. "I…" Faramir's voice trailed pitifully, for he knew not how to respond, and as he thought further of it, he could not help but wonder if anything he had said held any truth. Perhaps his rationalities were all simply a front in which to protect his heart from being further damaged.

The Warden turned his back on the young Steward, sighing. "You do love the Rohan girl, do you not?"

Faramir's eyes fell to his feet. "Yes," he admitted softly.

The Warden sighed again. "You who pride himself on his insight surely can see that her sadness stems from something beyond her dreams," he said softly. "And how can you be so sure it is a dream you cannot give her? Dreams change, Faramir, as do destinies and desires." He ran a hand through his greying hair. "It is time to put away your pride and your fears, Faramir. Speak with the Lady Eowyn. Let her know."

Faramir stared at the Warden, before he stood, nodding. "You are wise, Warden, and see beyond even what I can see. They say that you should never judge yourself, for you are often the worst to judge your own self," said Faramir. "I shall speak with her now, if I may."

He knew not what he would garner from this meeting, but at least he should honour her with his true feelings, even if she were to cast it aside for the one she truly desired.

"Indeed she walks the gardens, as she has every day since last seeing you," said the Warden, with a glimmer in his eyes that seemed to indicate a hidden smile. "She may well be expecting you, my lord."

8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8

"Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?"

Éowyn did not meet Faramir's gaze, wishing that he had not asked her such a question, for she herself could not answer it. She looked off to the side, staring at the festivities below the wall in which they now stood and said: "Do you not know?"

Faramir sighed at her answer, for it sounded as if she meant to trap him. Frustrated, he decided to respond with a vague rationalization.

"Two reasons," he stated holding up two fingers, "there may be." He let his hand fall to his side as he looked at her sadly. "But which is true, I do not know."

He could feel his throat becoming restricted as he looked upon her, revelling in her beauty, and yet felt great sadness for she indeed appeared paler and thinner since he saw her last. Already he scolded himself for being so negligent towards her, for not giving her the attention she so sorely needed.

Éowyn closed her eyes as she felt anger flare within her. "I do not wish to play at riddles," she said irritably, clenching her hands into fists. "Speak plainer!"

She had waited for his coming for too long to endure such games with him, and she almost loathed the way he insisted on being vague, as if he could not speak what is truly on his mind.

Faramir was slightly taken aback at her vehement command, and he blinked rapidly at it. "Then if you will have it so, lady," he said, "you do not go because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy." He stopped to calm himself with deep breathes, trying to ignore the stabbing pains of jealousy within him.

"Or," he continued more softly, "because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me." She did not look to him when he spoke, so he continued his supposition. "And maybe for both reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them."

Faramir stopped again looking to Éowyn in silence. She did not meet his gaze, staring only to the stone of the wall they stood on, above the courtyard. He bit his lip as anxiety took him, and so he said softly, "Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?"

Éowyn's heart skipped a beat at his gentle tone, but she blinked at the odd question Faramir asked her. What did he mean? So she answered him with only what she knew. "I wished to be loved by another," she answered. "But I desire no man's pity."

Faramir groaned. "That I know," he said impatiently. "You desire to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable." He paused as he tried to calm himself, noting how Éowyn had tensed during his tirade. How it irritated him that a woman could make him lose control of his emotions and his mind! He felt beaten, unable to fight any longer. He lacked the energy, and his heart was heavy.

"For so he is," he whispered softly, "a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle."

He took her shoulders, turning her gently so that she faced him. She did not resist him, but her eyes were still downcast. Faramir's voice became hoarse, and his eyes were cheerless as he said: "Look at me, Éowyn."

Slowly she lifted her eyes to his, until at last she was staring into the grey depths of his soul. Her breath quickened as she was flooded by raw emotions, and she was unable to speak, trapped in a void of feeling. She wished to look away, to avoid those eyes that were looking to her with so much sadness, but she could not draw herself away from his gaze.

And then Faramir spoke. "Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn!" said Faramir. "But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell." He gripped her harder. "And I love you."

At last he had said those words, and as they left his lips he felt as if a great and terrible weight has been lifted from his soul, for she was now aware of his feelings. Even if she was not to return them, even if she would continue to look only to the King Aragorn, it mattered not, for the truth had set him free, and perhaps now Faramir would find true peace in his love for her, ever if she would never be his.

Éowyn's eyes widened and it seemed that she was looking upon Faramir for the first time. And indeed he had laid himself bare to her. And then she understood that the sorrow in his eyes, the sadness and pain was not out of sympathy for her, but out of his own misery, for he loved her, and yet it seemed to him to be a one-sided romance, for she followed another. She could feel tears forming in her eyes as she realized that his pain was perhaps as great as her own, and yet he bore it more valiantly than she did.

"Once I pitied your sorrow," continued Faramir. "But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn," he cried desperately, looking at her, "do you not love me?" Even as he asked the question, he feared the answer, feared her rejection, that she would walk away and leave him alone, to bear his love for her sorrowfully. He knew that if she were to reject him, that he would have no other.

But his worries were for naught, for then the heart of Éowyn changed, turning and falling into place, or at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and she was able to feel the sun.

"I…" she started breathlessly, looking to Faramir in wonder, "I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, and behold! the Shadow has departed!" She lifted her once injured arm, now fully healed as she said, "I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren." She laughed happily as she looked about her, feeling warmth cascading down on her and light, beautiful and free. She looked to Faramir again, her grey eyes no longer frozen or cold, but full of life as she said to him meaningfully, "No longer do I desire to be queen."

And she took his hand in hers, and placed her head on his shoulder, her golden hair against his neck.

Faramir laughed merrily. "That is well for I am not a king. Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes."

She lifted her head to look up at him. "Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?" she asked almost coyly. "And would you have your proud folk say of you "There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor to choose?" "

Faramir's eyes softened as he looked at her, her golden hair shining in the sunlight, and her face glowing with love and life, no longer the reflection of a pale ghost. "I would," he said tenderly, placing his fingers gently in her hair, brushing it back, until they came to her chin.

They looked upon each other, as he took her in his arms, and they drew close to each other. "I would," he whispered again, and they kissed under the sunlit sky.

**The End**


End file.
